


Performative

by inkyfishes



Series: Performative [1]
Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26758945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyfishes/pseuds/inkyfishes
Summary: Julian Fawcett (MP) was once a whole human living person, but now he's dead and doesn't have any trousers on. His relationship with The Captain reflects his relationship with his life. Surface-level, silly stuff that keeps from the darkness underneath.***Nitpicky edit - 13/01/2021 (grammar / structure / can't leave "well enough" alone)***
Relationships: The Captain/Julian Fawcett
Series: Performative [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075346
Comments: 18
Kudos: 135





	Performative

**Author's Note:**

> The major character death is the death of one of the ghosts, so I'm not sure whether the tag is even deserved because of that - I've included it anyway for safety's sake!

Julian Fawcett not-yet-MP was sitting on a hard oak chair in a small, wood panelled room at Abbey House. It was his final interview before selection as a Prospective Parliamentary Candidate. A thick file attesting to his pedigree was lying smugly on the table between him and the interviewer from the Conservative Central Office who was conducting proceedings.

The interviewer was a huge grey man with thick eyebrows. Bald as a coot. He had been squeezed into his suit, which did _so_ lack the elegance of the new bespoke movement on Saville Row. The jacket looked at least two years old, if not more, and that spoke volumes about the man. Julian had read all he needed to the moment they clasped hands. His interviewer was old money, money which was drying out. Julian was in a similar position. Julian would have sympathised, if a facility for sympathy existed in him. 

Eyebrows had been lightly grilling Julian for an hour at this point, prying open his history, his associations, his financial obligations. Probing his political stance from all angles. Julian had deflected with ease. This was not a true interrogation, after all. It was just a dance. Julian knew, as did the man opposite, that the game here was not to uncover any nasty secrets but to demonstrate how good Julian was at hiding them.

So, when they moved to the final tick-box questions, Julian was already mentally out of the door and on the way to lunch. Cheeky brandy at a nearby bistro? Then onwards to cocktails? The entire night stretched out in front of him, sparkling with anticipation.

"Do you have any personal philosophies which may influence the work you will perform should you be elected?" the interviewer asked.

"Oh, heavens, no," Julian selected one of his most winning smiles. The number three. Worked a charm on older men, those that liked to view themselves as important despite their encroaching ineffectuality.

"Do you have any beliefs which do not align with the tenets of the Conservative Party?"

"Er... tenets of the Conservative Party..." Julian mulled the question in his head. What on earth _were_ the tenets of the Conservative Party? Shut up? Sit down? Agree? Julian thought it much like prep school.

"Mister Fawcett," the man re-seated himself, cramming his substantial bulk even further into his chair. "I am cautious that certain allegations have been made as to your behaviour at Oxford." Julian forced his eyes not to twitch; Kept his gaze level and cool. Fortunately, the man couldn't see Julian's pulse quickening. That was the one thing Julian had yet learned to control. "It is nothing which eliminates you from consideration. However, it is appropriate to ensure that you understand such behaviour cannot and will not be tolerated."

Julian corrected his posture, ran the checklist of performativity. Expose the wrists to indicate vulnerability. Hook the fingers when gesturing (pointing is threatening). Broaden the chest to give height, exude confidence.

"I give you my word. I shall not bring the Conservative Party into disrepute."

*

The promise lasted three years. Which, for Julian, was quite good.

And the disrepute? _Monumental_. 

*

Julian was dead and didn't have any trousers on. It took another three years before one of the others - _oh yes, there were others_ \- who were also stuck in limbo made Julian wonder whether he should be _ashamed_ of being caught eternally in the nip. That other in particular was the man referred to only as 'the Captain', who had taken the first full year to meet his eyes in the first place.

One night, as Julian was settling into his room for a not-sleep after another monotonous day of dull conversation, the man in question had glid through the doorway and commenced berating him for bringing down the general decorum of the estate, whatever that meant.

"Isn't there any way you could -" the Captain gestured his silly swagger stick in the direction of Julian's bare legs. "Improvise a solution to your predicament? Perhaps fashion some sort of solution our of your jacket to replace your trousers. Make-do-and-mend."

"I beg your pardon? I'm not going to wobble around here with my legs stuffed in jacket sleeves for the rest of my death. It would look undignified."

"I believe you and dignity may have passed like ships in the night some time ago," the Captain spat, mockingly.

Julian gave him an number four smile. Challenging. A bit of teeth.

"Care to elaborate on your implication there, _squire_?" Julian crowded into the Captain's personal space as he spoke, like a fox sniffing out a bin. Wondering what he would do.

Julian could see a familiar performative fight unfold: the Captain wanted to retreat, but refused to back down. His body had tightened, but the truest signs of just how fundementally uncomfortable Julian's half-nakedness made the Captain were the flush on the Captian's cheekbones and the sudden inability to meet Julian's eyes. The latter would have been a deadly giveaway. Julian beat down the temptation to smirk. He never would have hid it at boarding school with tells that blatant.

"The circumstances surrounding your death," the Captain muttered.

"Oh, yes." Julian modified the four to a five by putting a bit of sparkle in his eyes. "I was wondering whether you had been watching."

That didn't so much put the cat amongst the pigeons as drop a tiger into London Zoo's rare bird exhibit. The Captain didn't speak - didn't seem capable of it - so Julian read his answer to what had happened from the Captain's dizzying expressions. It was as easy as reading a speech from a teleprompter. The man simply had no filter. Julian knew for certain, the Captain had seen _everything_. All of the disastrous hedonism which led up to Julian's death. 

"You could at least tell me if you enjoyed it. Give a man a sporting chance to know what he's working with, eh?"

The Captain's expressions stopped moving, and he froze in horror. Julian dropped the attitude immediately. _Bugger_. He had pushed him too far. That had always been Julian's trouble. Too much, never enough.

The Captain leaped out of the room through the wall before Julian had a chance to say anything further. 

*

Julian's discovery of his _extraordinary powers_ \- as Pat termed it - came several years later. They were a game changer. Not only could Julian prod down and open some of the dusty books which were hanging in the library (to give them all a brief respite of solo entertainment), it also made him invaluable to the Captain. He always needed Julian to do this that or other to make the house more "ship shape and Bristol fashion" as the last Lady Button lost more of her eyesight and upkeep went lax. 

Julian would say varying permutations of " _happy to lend my fingers to a good cause_ " or such, with a blithe number twelve grin whenever the Captain would come to him in request. It was incredibly satisfying to watch the man flush and flounder in the innuendo. Some times, the Captain would entirely ignore it. Other times - the best times - it looked almost as if he was gearing up to return the serve. He had never quite managed it, but progress was being made. And Julian was an enthusiastic supporter of progress. So long as it benefited him, of course.

On one occassion, in the middle of straightening a vase on its pillar, Julian found himself having more difficulty than usual. His finger phased uselessly through the physical surface again and again, not once making contact. Julian tried to refocus himself, groaning some choice expletives, but he was reaching the depths of his enthusiasm (which, in all honesty, were pretty bloody shallow).

It didn't help at all that the Captain was such an arresting presence at his shoulder, observing activities like a good CO. Julian swore he could feel the man's body heat radiating against him, despite the impossiblity of the ghostly nature.

"We might have to put this to bed for the day," Julian sighed, after the tingling in his fingers got too much. He felt physically exhausted, his muscles strained. How was _that_ still possible?

"Nonsense. You did five vases yesterday, this is only your third."

Julian wiped impossible sweat from his brow with the back of a hand. "I can't do it. Look, I don't know how this works. None of us do. But the longer I do it, the harder it is. And I can't concentrate. I don't want to do myself an injury."

"Bit late for that. No, come on," the Captain chided, in a way Julian was sure he would term 'encouraging'. "I'm sure you've got more in you."

Julian gave the Captain a firm number two with the raised eyebrow. There was a beat, then the Captain rolled his eyes as he processed the hanging innuendo. There was no other acknowledgment.

"Can't you give me something better than just _try harder_?" Julian whined.

The Captain seemed to ponder this. "Motivation? Well, in command of the men, usually the impending invasion of the Boche was enough to give a firmer kick up the backside. Or a good old threat of court marshal. I can see that neither of these would work in this situation, but perhaps we could look to 1941 -" 

Julian was cautious he wanted to avoid a three hour diversion. "What about something to alleviate physical strain? My hands are killing me."

That was actually true. Julian didn't know the parabiology, but his hands were liable to absolutely cane under the stress of poking. Maybe it was due to being so weedy in life. He had never educated himself physically, even at school. He was always the worst in rugger, had been regularly beaten for it. Eventually, he began his exploration into the art of the lie and ended up able to avoid sports entirely with a string of well crafted tales of family disasters, thanks to a gullable head of sixth. A lack of physical definition hadn't mattered much in the Foreign Office, amongst similarly pathetic looking men, but in the afterlife Julian was presumably now stuck with what muscle he had developed in life. Which was, to all intents and purposes, sod all.

"Well, I could suggest some stretches. There was a course suggested for sharpshooters, those who would get terrible stiffness in the joints of their fingers."

"RSI?"

"Bless you," The Captain said, cluelessly. "Yes, ah, however, there is one slight fly in the ointment. We would get the men to be matched up to assist in the, ah, manipulation of the joints. In a pair, you see."

Julian didn't entirely see the problem. "Any particular reason why _you_ can't give a man a hand with his... hand?"

"Well. Usually, this sort of thing wouldn't cross rank."

"I won't tell if you don't."

The Captain looked distrustful. Probably thought he was being tricked. Julian didn't try a smile, aware of the delicate nature of the offer. Besides, his hand hurt too much and he was tired. He genuinely wanted relief. So, Julian waited, patiently, until something broke in the Captain's expression.

"Fine," he said, resigned, and stuck the ridiculous stick under his armpit. 

Julian offered his hand. It wasn't until the Captain brushed his fingers with his own, peering critically at Julian's palm like he was being offered a rifle for inspection, that Julian realised he hadn't considered something monumental. In the years of his death, he had yet to touch another ghost. His first time was happening now. The feeling of contact made his body shiver in a way he couldn't completely control. It was indescribably different.

"You alright there, soldier?"

"I, uh -" Julian licked his lips. Stared at his hand, where the Captain's skin was in contact with his. "I haven't actually touched anyone since. I mean this. This is new. It feels... uh."

"Cold, yes?"

"Maybe." _Not really._

The Captain turned Julian's palm over. Supported it with both of his hands. That simple action brought Julian to the edge of hysteria. _God_ , Julian truly hadn't realised how much he had missed human touch until this moment.

The Captain smoothed the skin of his palm and fingers with kind, gentle strokes. It made all of Julian's nerve endings sing. He flipped over Julian's left hand, working the same soft touches from the tips of his fingers to his wrist. Julian wondered if the Captain could feel how violently his pulse was hammering, like the blood wanted to break free of his skin. He had never learned to control that.

Palm down, the Captain pinched Julian's fingertips. Then, using short strokes from his thumb, he rubbed new heat into each of Julian's fingers. He took Julian's hand between his two thumbs and pressed deeply into the muscles of his aching palm.

 _Jesus wept_. Julian _finally_ wished for trousers, for boxers - hell, for a skirt at this point. Anything which might be a barrier to the problems which were beginning to exert themselves downstairs at the softness and newness of the Captain's touch. It wouldn't do to moan. Heavens, know - that would be the worst. If he did, the Captain might stop and Julian _categorically_ could not let that happen.

Julian stared hard at the rank insignia on the Captain's lapel, tried to count each little frustrating square. The Captain worked forcefully from his palm down to his wrist. Julian flinched as The Captain threaded his fingers with Julian's.

"Ah - ?"

Julian questioned, his insides beating back all instincts to pounce like returning balls on a squash court.

"Stretching," the Captain said, too quickly, as if he had already anticipated the question. "You interlace fingers and -" the Captain gently pushed his hand against Julian's, forcing his wrist up. Then, he carefully twisted. Julian worked the physiology of it out; the movement rotated the joint in his wrist to its full extent.

Then, it was over. Julian had been fucked before - both in the literal sense and with every drug he ever got his hands on - but he had never felt so thoroughly, inexorably laid out. He needed a cigarette. Or a line. Probably both.

"There we go. Fighting fit?"

Julian, for the first time in his life/death, was entirely without words. He met the Captain's eyes and couldn't speak. He knew why he couldn't speak. He couldn't speak because there was _nothing_ he could say which would make The Captain touch him more. There was no spin, no persuasion, no bargain that Julian could propose to get the Captain to keep touching him. That realisation was so, so dreadful.

Julian needed time. He could buy time.

"Yes. Brilliant. Just the trick. Could we - perhaps - do this again?" Julian said. The Captain didn't recoil. Good first start. "To improve... things. I think that these - stretches... they could improve my, ah, resilience. Maybe if we did this regularly we could see whether things improve?" Julian's breath caught for a bit. He felt unsteady. Woozy. "I mean, perhaps I could even _twist_ something, if we keep this up."

"A regular maintenance drill? To keep our primary weapon in good nick?"

 _Sure, whatever you need to believe._ "Yes."

Julian refused to move, letting the Captain leave him instead. Julian followed him with his eyes until the Captain was out of sight.

Trouserless, emotionally broken and iron-hard, Julian let himself fall through the floor into an unoccupied segment of the basement and screamed himself hoarse in frustration.

*

The last Lady Button left them for the glow above. Alison and Mike arrived. Julian was violently informed of his legacy of what the papers had made of his demise and their eradication of all his good work at the Foreign Office in pursuit of sleaze. The Hall became a destination for weddings. There were, finally, new stories to tell, to be involved in.

So, very little remained the same, which was good. Other than the hand massages. They - _thank god_ \- continued.

They weren't daily - that might have re-killed them both - but when Julian felt the familiar tension around his wrists, or felt that The Captain was becoming sharper with him, Julian would suggest it might be time for a session with the medic and they would sneak off into a deserted part of the hall.

The Captain would dutifully perform his routine and Julian would bite down on the inside of his cheek until it didn't-bleed.

At this point, there had been twenty-odd years of the same routine, and Julian truly didn't know whether the Captain fully understood what was going on. He could be spectacularly obtuse. Julian often tried to search the Captain's expression during the massage, trying to see whether there was any evidence that he - _also_ \- was getting off to it. But there was never anything. As Julian had acknowledged from first sight that the man was an open book, this was deeply disappointing. 

On night, Julian was lying not-on the bed in "his" room, staring at the ceiling, when a thought came to him. 

_I have put myself into my own sexual purgatory._

It wasn't an original thought. The idea that everything that this "afterlife" was a hallucination he was having whilst hooked up to a respirator at the Royal Surrey County Hospital had been around for the first ten years or so. But now, after so many years, Julian was pretty sure that wasn't the case. After all, even his mind, as brilliant as it was, could never have dreamt up Pat.

So, yes, he didn't have a hand in putting himself in the purgatory of the traditional sense, but Julian's libido had decided to make the whole thing so much worse by purposefully latching onto the most sexually repressed of the lot. Sure, all the women had rejected him within seconds of his death. But he had yet to attempt any of the other men. He probably could have gone to any of the others and had a better reception. Hell, Thomas was a poet. Halfway bent already, surely? Would only need a _little_ push.

Julian winced at the idea, bit the side of his fingernail. The idea of doing that now seemed a little... crass? On the nose? Good lord, what was happening to him? It was almost as if he was developing morals. In life, he hadn't never considered the feelings of anyone he had tried it on with. Honestly, he hadn't needed to. The kind of parties he had picked up men at were hardly for those just dipping their toes in the pool. Those parties were part of an underground scene people couldn't just happen upon. There was a system in place which ensured that the people there knew exactly what would be going on, knew exactly what would be expected of them and - most importantly - knew exactly what would happen to them should they go to the papers about it.

He imagined the Captain arriving at one of those parties. Crowding himself down one of the narrow, neon-pink lit entryways to the discreet gentlemen's club in deepest, darkest Soho. Large overcoat. Looking out of place, but still authoritative. Sans stupid stick.

Julian would have been lounging, as always, in one of those round, plush seating arrangements in the centre of the club with the nameless companions he would have met barely minutes earlier. Probably drinking something unbearably sweet to counter the dizziness that came with the batch of MDMA-offshoots which were always making their rounds.

Despite the half-naked ravers who would usually block the view of the entrance, Julian was sure he would have noticed the Captain coming in. He would have stuck out like a northerner at conference. The Captain wouldn't be confident - no. He would be nervous, inexperienced. Fiddling with his wrists, eyes skating around the room, landing on nothing. But he would be no less sure this was something he wanted, which was the key point. Wanted something which Julian could give him, freely and cheerfully.

Back in the Hall, Julian felt a familiar heat prickle the back of his neck. He kept his eyes closed and grabbed a handful of himself.

They would have eventually locked eyes. Julian would have seen it in him immediately in him, the desire, the excitement, the fresh newness. Would have given him a very strong number seven smile, one that told the Captain there would be no way the night didn't end exactly how Julian wanted it to. Given him some of the confidence the Captain would have been stripped of. Julian would have given rushed goodbyes to his "friends" around him (those who were still conscious, at least) then pushed his way through the crowd towards him.

Would they have danced? Yes, they _always_ did. Part of the performance, was the dance.

Julian's mind skips through that bit fast-forward - the half-naked ravers surrounding them from all sides, the electronic music rumbling through his bones, the pulsating multi-coloured lights, brightly projected spinning symbols on every wall.

They would have kissed - _fuck_ _yes_ \- they would have kissed hard and rough and Julian would have grabbed handfuls of Army-issue backside and pulled them together until the light couldn't break through them.

Then, they would be suddenly and unremarkably back at Julian's London flat in Hammersmith. They wouldn't be able to keep their mouths off each other as they made their way up the stairs, toppling every sodding vase in the hall, smashing them into tiny pieces on the hardwood floor.

The Captain would press Julian into the bed and then - _fast-forward to the good bits_ \- Julian would barely be able to breathe as the Captain fucked into him, again and again, all around him, covering him, surrounding him.

Julian would claw at the Captain's broad back. Mind going stupid with the pleasure. Being crowded up to the headboard. Bent double. Throat exposed for biting kisses - _yes - yes - yes - yes._

Julian fell through the bed when he came. His eyes snapped open into the pitch black of mid-mattress. He screamed, panicked, immediately believing the whole experience had added blindness to his death.

By the time he worked out what had happened, he had lost all of the afterglow. He lay prostrate on the wooden floor until the morning scream.

*

The next day, they were all in the garden, watching the arrangement of the country fete to take place that weekend. The other ghosts had gone down to the in-progress marquee and were flitting around the different stalls like buzzing investigators around a crime scene. Julian didn't take to country fetes in the same way as he did weddings. Weddings were a party, a celebration. Lots of lovely people to ghost-grope and watch tongue-fuck each other in quiet corners. Country fetes were dull and Julian had been to enough of them in his life, putting rosettes on courgettes and trying to be interested in the largeness of pigs.

Julian was sitting in the bench at the bottom of the grounds instead, leaning up so he could pretend he could feel the sun on his face. A shadow passed above him and he cracked one eye open.

The Captain. Of course.

"I was thinking. Do you think it might be time to give your hand a polish? It's been a while and I don't want one of our only weapons out of action should an emergency arise."

"It's not hurting," Julian said. He flexed his fingers, demonstratively.

The Captain's face fell. "Oh. Alright. Good to hear."

The Captain turned on the ball of his foot to move. For some reason, it was suddenly too difficult for Julian to imagine him leaving. Perhaps it was the shadowy recollections of last night. He felt compelled to turn the stones of reality, to see if any equated with the fantasy.

"What's your name?"

The Captain turned back, baffled.

"Pardon?"

"Your name."

"Why?"

 _I want to know what name I should be screaming in my fancying._ "It's only polite to ask one's name."

"You've never asked before."

"If you're going to be so bolshie about it, then I won't."

"Bolshie?" 

"Uncooperative. Being a dickhead."

"I don't owe you personal information," the Captain said, with an air of finality. 

Julian scrambled to his feet. "Don't you think that's a bit rich of you to say? You know way more about me than I know about you, and I didn't even have a choice in that. You all saw my bloody death," Julian waved to indicate the _all_ although none of the others seemed in earshot.

"That's... not accurate. I saw your death. No one else was in the room. Other than -" the Captain nodded his head slightly.

 _The bloke I was trying to fuck_.

The revelation shifted the image of his death in his mind. Julian had been so sure that everyone of them had been laughing at him, perving at him, making fun of how he didn't even get to enjoy his last hoorah.

How he hadn't managed to get his jacket off before the ketamine he had shot minutes earlier in the toliet overwhelmed his body, so as he crossed the doorway to the bedroom he was already collapsing onto the floor. 

He had imagined Fanny screaming at his twitching soon-to-be-corpse, demanding it to not get vomit on the carpets. Imagined Mary going do-lally as he siezed and thrashed, believing him to be possessed or some such nonsense. Pat shouting advice into his deafening ears about getting into such-and-such position to make it easier to breathe, all as Julian's vision was resolving into such utter, complete blackness.

But it had been just the Captain there. Watching Julian's last, pathetic, notorious moments.

"You asked me once whether I enjoyed watching you. I didn't understand what the hell you meant for the longest time. It was... _horrible_. But you - you didn't mean the end, did you? You meant the party before. The - sounds and - all that... nakedness." 

Julian couldn't recall saying anything of the sort, but he knew it was just the kind of shit he would have said on reflex, under pressure. _You like that, baby? Watching me lose control?_ God, he had sexualised his own overdose. He was a hedonistic headcase.

"The chap you were with... he didn't know you, did he?"

"Met him that night at the party," Julian said, trying to make it sound cheerful, but it came out numb. What was his name? Derek? David? Phil? How was it that the person who he died with had so little meaning to him? "If I hadn't been so desperate to hurry up and follow him, I would have realised the dose was too much. I knew my doses, what I could handle. I wasn't an idiot, you know."

"Oh." The Captain sounded relieved. Julian looked at him, quizzically. "Not the - not the last part. It makes sense that - that he didn't know you. It makes sense why he didn't stick around. Didn't try and... help. Get you medical assistance."

"Too right he didn't. I'd have bolted in the same situation. Could you imagine the scandal? Well, actually, you don't have to - we can pull it up on the bendy computer. Read all about it."

"I think you're a better man then that. I think you would have stayed."

"Because _you_ did." Julian smiled, understanding. The Captain's expression softened. "Honestly, sometimes I do believe you're the best of us."

"You're... the strangest?" the Captain offered.

"Oh, so _I'm_ the strangest? In a house which contains _actual_ pre-historic man. You're quite the charmer."

"Strangest as in - as in I'm never sure what's an act and what's real with you."

"Politician," Julian offered self-depreciatingly, but he knew it didn't quite come out right.

There was a sound from far away; familiar voices shouting which indicated something was happening. Julian could see the tension rise in the Captain's shoulders as he whipped his head around to follow the noise. Being called into active service once again.

Julian was quite happy to let it all happen without him, to take a day off from being part of the collective. He moved to settle back into the bench, but stopped as the Captain cleared his throat to speak.

"If this was _my_ time. We would have never attended such a party as that."

The Captain hadn't turned back around, so he was facing the other direction, toward the noise. But he was speaking so clearly to Julian, it felt more intimate than if he had been whispering it into his ear. Julian held himself, midway between sitting and standing, suspended in the moment, unwilling to break it.

"There - perhaps - wouldn't have been anywhere to go. There was a war on. And it wasn't. Well. It was what it was. We could have gone to the pictures, I fancy. Or walking in the forest with the dogs. It wouldn't have been glamorous. But I think. Perhaps. You may have enjoyed the truth in it all. Would have been happier with the fight outside your head, rather than in it."

*

The next day Julian spent permenantly on fire, all twitching and keyed up. It was the kind of feeling which usually necessitated a hand massage, but Julian knew with a lump in his throat the size of a tennis ball that the next hand massage appointment could never, ever just be a hand massage appointment after the day's prior conversation. And Julian would be damned if he would have to be the one to initiate a discussion about feelings.

Luckily, there was the distraction in the form of the fete which was in full flood. With everyone preoccupied, no one had time ask why the ghost of the trouserless disgrace was confining himself to the Hall, rather than bothering the old biddies exchanging their pensions for pink-or-yellow tomobla tickets.

For hours, Julian watched the goings on from the giant windows on the first floor, where only a blink of the eye earlier he had successfully toppled Alison out and into their lives proper. When it came, the sunset painted the sky a colour that even Thomas would have difficulty describing. It felt absolutely wasted on him.

Julian had been smirking, to himself, as Mike started quite cack-handedly dismantling the marquee. The Captain had been shouting uselessly at Mike's head throughout, getting redder and redder as Mike tangled himself more and more in guide ropes and canopy. Julian bit his finger to cut off the worst of the giggles which were racking through his traitorous body. Some combination of sounds made the Captain turn his head, directly at Julian, and cut off mid-order.

Julian _truly_ hadn't intended to use smile number twenty. He wasn't even sure he remembered what smile number twenty was for. He tried to imagine it on someone else's face. Reminded him of cricket in the late afternoon sun. Cracking his back after the final strokes of the pen on his finals. Being drunk on very dark, very expensive red wine in the Strangers' Bar after a nail-biting vote.

Whatever expression it was, it seemed to convey something very concerning to the Captain, as he looked around frantically for support, evidentally found none, and started to charge into the Hall.

Julian's uncontrollable pulse quickened. He moved himself into the room proper. Jumped as something startled him.

The Captain must have leapt through the floor because he was _just there_ with no preamble. 

"Don't leave -" the Captain blurted, breathlessly.

"I'm not going to -" Julian was half-way through his laugh as the Captain grabbed him, brought their mouths together. _Oh, yes._

Julian felt himself melt, letting his eyes flutter shut, sensations swooning. God, the Captain was warm. Soft. Strong. Julian felt his fingers along the rough wool of his coat, scratched his fingernails in it. This was as real as it could get. How it was ever going to get.

They broke apart to breathe. The Captain's eyes were flickering all over him.

"You weren't frightened I was going to jump, were you?" Julian asked, swallowing his breath. "You know Fanny does that every morning - it's hardly fatal."

"I thought you were going to bally well go off into the beyond," the Captain sounded hoarse, his cheeks tinged red. "You looked so... stable."

"...Huh." Julian shook his head, the thought unable to stick. "I don't think everyone's ever called me stable before."

"What have they called you?" There was such concern in his voice. A concern Julian didn't understand. He reflected the question back at The Captain instead. Wondered whether their stories had taken some of the same, shame-filled stops.

"Oh, good god, every name under the sun. And a lot of names in _The Sun_."

"What was the last good word anyone said to you?"

Julian found he knew it immediately. In fact, the answer came to him with such violent immediacy that there was no time to provide an alternative cover story which would be convincing enough to match the genuine understanding which would, no doubt, have streaked across his face.

"A man at the Oxford Union told me that he loved me. That I was going to be Foreign Secretary." It was enough, but not enough; Julian found it impossible not to continue. "That I was going to be Foreign Secretary if I stopped loving him."

It was such a dark memory that Julian took some time to realise he wasn't back there, trapped in that moment, but instead in a new one. The way the Captain nosed his cheek, demanded attention, helped. 

"Kiss me," the Captain asked. Who was Julian to defy orders?

Julian gripped his coat with both hands, dragged them both the bed. They fell down at odd angles, both of their spectral forms not assuming the same level. Julian took the initiative and tugged the Captain's clothes until he spread over Julian. The Captain was breathless. He was still holding his stick.

"Get rid of the stick!"

"Oh! Yes."

The Captain dropped it over the bed. Julian could see the pinch of concentration between The Captain's eyebrows that came with trying to place part of your spectre away from you, like trying to direct away a begging dog.

Julian leant up on his elbows and kissed between his eyebrows, then hovered, collapsing the distance between their mouths almost but not quite completely. 

"You're going to fuck me," Julian instructed, quietly, hoping a brief would put the man at ease. Julian watched the bob of the Captain's Adam's apple, the increased tempo of his breathing. "Because I've been waiting thirty years for this and you've been waiting longer."

The Captain's awareness seemed to have narrowed to nothing but the dip in Julian's collarbone, but he nodded anyway and surged up to bring their mouths together again. Then, it was all a frantic, convoluted movement of buttons and zippers and ties - for everything that Julian lacked, the Captain made up for in terms of layers. They knew from experience it was _incredibly_ difficult to keep clothes off and not jumping back on, so they moved things to one side rather than stripping them off completely.

Eventually, Julian lost his patience, delved his hand down the front of the Captain's trousers and felt the length of him.

"Good lord -" the Captain gasped, eyelids fluttering.

Julian smirked. _This_ was real power. Foreign Office be damned.

The Captain thrust up and Julian tightened his fist for him. Made him growl against Julian's ear. He knew this, this untameable craze. Loved seeing it in other men. Had missed it. So, so much. They kissed again, shifted, rolled and moved until Julian couldn't take any kind of distance between them anymore and took charge of the action. He swung his legs over the Captain's waist and pulled him up and into a sitting position with the knot of his tie so they could kiss more. 

" _Fuck me_ -" Julian growled, demandingly.

"Ah - d - don't we need -"

"You are - you are actually never going to let me live this down - " Julian laughed against The Captain's mouth. He had been _waiting_ for this. The Captain raised an eyebrow as Julian put a hand into the inner lining of his own blazer and pulled out a small bottle of personal lubricant. "Surprise!"

"... You died... with...?"

"And it refills! Glorious thing this ghosthood. And it's very boy scout of me, don't you think? Hey - do you reckon Pat would give me a badge?"

The Captain grabbed it from him, his eyes trying to understand what he was holding. Julian realised something might have been lost in the time difference, but the Captain wasn't stupid and eventually realised what he was holding. He inexplicably began to laugh. Julian found himself unable to contain his own laughter, letting it rack through him, until it softly transformed into moans as the Captain arduously took his time slicking his fingers, slicked himself, slicked everywhere Julian needed slicked. 

"Please - _god_ \- hurry up. I'm good. Ah - no one - no one has ever taken this bloody long before."

"There's nothing wrong with being thorough."

"Fuck me, fuck me, _please_ ," Julian begged, knowing the more he did, the less coherent the Captain's actions were, the more likely they were to finally get to the point of it all. It was also getting increasingly more difficult _not to_. He was trembling, electrified by it.

The Captain eventually threw the bottle to one side (Julian felt it, refilled, re-appear in its usual spot in the lining of his jacket) and guided himself home.

Julian couldn't breathe. Glad he didn't need to. Wondered if the deepest k-hole he had been in had ever felt this intense. Was this was ghostness that was setting every nerve ending on fire? Or was there actually something to that delaying pleasure malarky? He felt equal parts being split and being stapled together as the Captain thrust upwards, short and sharp and _god_ so deep.

He grabbed the bulk of the Captain's arms, bent his body over, rubbed his forehead against his face, felt the wetness of his breath against him. Every movement brought some new dimension to it, some feeling that Julian couldn't revere with even the softest moan. He blindly found the Captain's mouth and tugged his lower lip with his teeth.

"Shit," the Captain swore, clutching at him. Julian had never felt so contained, so _safe_. "I have you. It's alright."

Then a hideous, terrible feeling broke through Julian in a rush.

_I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I fucked it all up I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead._

Julian begged and shouted and didn't have a name to call and - when he came - he fell through the floor. If the Captain hadn't caught him on the way down, Julian was quite convinced he would have made it through the whole planet. 

*

"I give you my word. I shall not bring the Conservative Party into disrepute."

With a few final words, Julian Fawcett not-yet-MP gave his interviewer a cordial handshake and left Abbey House, walking into the dull sun of midday London. The small cars were pouring out pollution, propelling the economy forward. The buses roaring, heaving with tourists, their pockets stuffed with beautiful British currency. The people, like little ants, were scurring from office to office, playing out their tiny, insignificant lives. Hopefully paying their taxes. His future paycheque.

The smile that he wore as he strolled down Baker Street towards the claustrophobic, eponymous station was for them. For his public, his electorate, the people who didn't even know that they didn't know him yet. A true number one, A-grade smirk that drooled confidence.

When he collapsed on the floor of his flat in the early hours of that night, crying as a cocktail of something horrible and poisonous shook its way out of his system... that pathetic smile of pain. That, that was all for him.

**Author's Note:**

> I think has now successfully got the Julian out of my system. I have strong feelings about a ghost wearing sock suspenders. Please leave a comment if you feel you can :)
> 
> I cannot find evidence that WWII soliders knew of hand massages but if this is the only historical fuck up I'll count that as a win.
> 
> The historical accuracy of 90s gay tories with drug problems on the other hand? That's 100% accurate.


End file.
